Why do I not believe that?
by HolmieIsTheNewSexy
Summary: Jim Moriarty wasn't supposed to come back with a "Sorry, boys!", but he did. The Semtex wasn't supposed to explode, but it did. John was never supposed to forget everything and everyone after the incident, but he did. What will Sherlock do when John's amnesia has turned him into a total stranger? Multichapter fanfic, not finished.
1. Ambulance sirens and hurried races

_Hello! I'm just really pleased to inform you that this fanfic, that will be multichaptered, is based in one of the posts of the Facebook page "Sherlock, the mess you've made!", so thank you very much for such an inspiration! I recommend you to go and follow this wonderful site. Thank you for choosing my story, remember I don't (sadly) own any of the Sherlock BBC characters, and, please, enjoy this first chapter! Any reviews will be welcome!_

_**HaushinkaWasHere**_

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**Chapter 1: "Ambulance sirens and hurried races"**

The growing smile that Jim was wearing in such an occasion seemed to fall at the sight of the gun lowering to the Semtex jacket that had been previously abandoned on the floor of the dark pool. The silent and shared nod between the doctor and the detective made sense now for the villain. Time seemed to slow down when the moment of pulling the trigger was coming dangerously closer. Breaths forgot to be taken, hearts increasing their paces, mental last words being formulated... No one ever thought three seconds could keep so many actions at the same time. The jacket exploded with a bleeding noise and a painful bomb of light. Their bodies seemed to be made of paper against the wild force of the implosion. Who would have thought that it would actually be made of non-fake explosives? Who would have ever deduced that James Moriarty was going to put himself in such a danger, the excuse of being a psychopath remaining forgotten as a possible explanation even?

Ambulance sirens and hurried races to the surgery fulfilled the next moments. The waiting room was deadly silent, but crowded of muted actions: the hands of the Government man couldn't leave his temple for a single second; the eyes of the landlady wept without control, leaving unquestionable red marks around them; the Detective Inspector's fists were formed by white knuckles which were ready to hit any close wall, or just to hit anything at all. Hours passed until the steps of the man with the news sounded echoed in the white corridor of the hospital. His words made our beloved little awaiting community breath normally again.

**-OoOoO-**

_John. John. John. John. John._

"JOHN!" says finally awakening from his post-surgery sleep.

"Finally. You were being too slow this time" says Mycroft with faked disinterest.

"Where is John? How is him?" In his voice there was a note of horror at the possible answer his brother could provide him.

"He's two rooms away from you, Sherlock. He just broke a few ribs and hit quite roughly his head against the floor. The doctor's thought he had damaged his cranium of seriousness, but it was a superficial issue thankfully. He's out of danger"

At his brothers words Sherlock lays back again against the bed, nerves going down knowing his friend was alive and, most important of all, recovering successfully. Confusing pictures are constantly crossing his mind about the previous moment of the Semtex incident: the trigger, Moriarty's smile dying in his lips, John affirming with his head, his thoughts while his body was in the air...

"Aren't you going to ask me about your diagnosis?"

"Not interested at all" It was difficult to talk normally. The movement his chest made built a hiss of pain, so now that he has been awaken for a couple of minutes he's trying to get used to the feeling, controlling the pressure and voice tone he must use to decrease the pain. "By my own state I suppose I had some ribs of the right side damaged, one of them threatening to hurt my lung. Hopefully the doctors were quick and avoided a possible serious problem. Am I right?" says, coughing slightly at the effort.

"You forgot some little cuts, but they weren't worth to be named. The rest is absolutely correct."

Sherlock nods and remains silent for a couple of seconds, just looking at the ceiling until he decides to break the silence.

"I want to see him".

"You can barely move, Sherlock. Let's not have a row for such incoherence"

"I said I want to see him, Mycroft"

"And I said that you won't be moving from here until you have recovered minimally. Is it understood, dear brother of mine?" says with a firm and angry tone, not raising his voice, though.

The look in Sherlock's face is dark, his eyebrows expressing the anger in him, as he starts sitting himself up with a painful facial expression. Not wanting to argue in such a moment, rolling his eyes and quickly getting up, Mycroft adds:

"For God's sake! Wait here, I'll get a wheelchair"

In less than a minute the older Holmes brother is back with a wheelchair and is helping his little brother, one arm over his shoulder, the walk being a challenge. The distance of two doors seems infinite to Sherlock. Inside John's room, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are sitting down, one at each side of his friend. He is fully awake, thing that makes Sherlock smile wide. But he knows something is wrong. The Detective Inspector and the landlady's faces have that "something" that confirms Sherlock's deduction. With his weak arms makes the wheelchair come closer to John's bed, being now able to totally see his face.

"John, I'm so sorry" it's the first thing he says. In response, John looks at him, with... Is that confusion in his eyes?

"Excuse me, do I know you?"

"Joking even after being unconscious for hours? We all can see you were a war man" says chuckling and hissing after, painfully.

"What? _War man_? Who are you? Why do I know no one in this bloody room? And why am I here?"

Sherlock's face freezes. Mycroft's contracts in a horror expression.

"This can't be happening" says Mrs. Hudson, her voice cracking.

The detective's hands clench, shaking slightly. His throat is suddenly blocked by a knot. John had forgotten everything. This wasn't any kind of joke. John had forgotten his years in Afghanistan. John had forgotten his friends. John had forgotten his late good memories... But most important of all: John had forgotten him.

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_I'd adore knowing your opinions! I'll try to be as quick as I can in updating this story. And sorry if there are any grammar mistakes all along the text, English isn't my mother tongue and I try my best. Thank you once again!_


	2. Confusing knots

_Hello again! Thanks again to ALL the lovely admins of the Facebook page "Sherlooc, the mess you've made" just for being so GREAT AND AWESOME, I recommend you all to go and check them a visit. Second, but not less important, thank you so much for all the reviews and favourites, you are the ones who, after all, make this possible. I hope you like this second chapter as much, at least, as you liked the first one! I'll try to update it as soon as possible, because I am revising more than ever... College finals, daaaaaaamn! Love and endless hugs,_

_**HaushinkaWasHere**_

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**Chapter 2: "Confusing knots"**

Sherlock's eyes never close at night since John didn't recognize him. His mind is in constant functioning, trying to bring his friend back but, most of all, trying to keep a cold and frozen expression to not show to anyone how broken he is. It has been three days since the first contact with him. Although the doctor was still confused about all the people around him, he allowed Sherlock a quick visit every day. They merely talked, and if they did it was about neutral issues which drove to nothing at all. In front of John's bed, when the blonde man was looking through the window... Better said, when Sherlock was sure that no one was actually seeing him, he let his emotions exit silently. He never showed any, and he would continue like that.

"How is John doing?" says his brother, playing with his umbrella unconsciously.

"The doctor's said he has amnesia, which was obvious. However, they were vague when I asked if it would be permanent or not."

"Being vague with prescriptions and diagnosis is a nearly official subject in the Medicine degree" chuckles sarcastically the older Holmes.

"He's closing himself. He seems to be permanently in deep thought, but I don't know why. I know you will probably say that it is because of the shock and the adaptation process to his new state. But I know that's not the only reason. The problem is-" he clears his throat before trying again, keeping his voice steady "The problem is that he doesn't trust me. And he won't in a long time."

"It won't be permanent."

"We don't know, Mycroft." He says, lowering his eyes, feeling his bottom lip shaking slightly. "I can't see him like that. I am not a stranger. He is my friend."

"We both know that's not totally true."

"I'm not going to discuss with you about what John Watson is for me." His words are cutting, like the best of the knives.

The detective from the outside seems to have lost a good friend of his. But what if we go deeper? What will we find? We can't imagine. Maybe it's all dark, empty, aching for such a loss. Or maybe he feels far worse than that. Because, after all, who knows what is going on in Sherlock Holmes' heart?

"This time I have no immediate answers to fix this, I'm sorry to tell. He could wake up any day and suddenly remember everything. But no one knows how long it will take or if it will ever happen."

"I'll be visiting him every day. I won't be giving up so easily. I have to save him."

"What if nothing is the same again?"

"I'll try my best. I need to bring him back." Says the tall man, able now to get up and walk properly by himself.

"I told you, Sherlock." says without looking at him before the detective leaves the room.

"You told me what?"

"That caring was not an advantage."

"I don't need your daily visits. You can leave now."

Deeply, he knows his brother is right. But not with John. John is... How could he describe it? Since their first question, "Afghanistan or Iraq?", Sherlock knew his life would never be the same if that man suddenly disappeared of his existence. He always knew it, and now he has confirmed these first thoughts. Two knocks before entering the room.

"Glad you are awake."

"The food here is rubbish." Says John with a polite smile.

"Generally life in a hospital is rubbish. How are you feeling?"

"Physically? Much better. Mentally? I am a serious mess." Says shaking his head. When he looks up at Sherlock his smile has disappeared, being occupied by a broken expression. "I can't understand a single thing, S-" stops, thinking before talking again. "Was it Sherlock? I'm terrible with names."

"Y-Yes, it is." He can't avoid his voice cracking this time, quickly clearing his throat.

"I have woken up, confused, alone but surrounded by people I know of nothing. I don't even know where I lived before this, I don't even know what happened. And I feel angry, tired and confused at the same time. I-I don't know what to do, or who I can trust. I just have vague feelings and guessing, which I don't know where they come from either." Hides his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking softly. Sherlock's insides are breaking apart, his face completely free of any possible mask to hide his feelings.

"W-What kind of feelings and guessing are you referring to?" says nearly whispering it. When John hears his words, he discovers his face again, looking directly at Sherlock.

"I'm angry that I can't remember a single thing about you. But... But I feel like I know you. I feel like you are special to me." His eyes are bright at such a moment. And Sherlock's heart is beating harder than ever.

"Well, I'm your friend, or, as you used to say, your best friend, John" merely adds the detective. Suddenly, John chuckles, bitterly, shaking his head.

"Then, why do I not believe that?"

A sudden silence fills the room, only bright eyes remaining in their positions: one into the other's. The only things Sherlock can hear are the beats of his heart, racing wildly. A knot is placed in his throat, in his stomach... Everything is a knot, a confusing knot: his life, his feelings, his whole "human error", his thoughts... Anything, absolutely anything that can include the two magic words: John Watson.

Some tears start threatening to fall down the detective's cheeks... But not only the detective's. Without a sound or a word, the taller man gets up and walks to the door, but before leaving, not able to look at the man he has been in love with since the day he was aware of his existence, says with his voice cracked:

"I'm sorry John"


	3. Blogs, tea and heads in the fridge

_Hello! I am back! Sorry for such an absence, Uni exams have been crazy but thankfully they are completely finished! So it was time to get my hands to the keyboard once again to continue this story. Once more thank all the admins in the Facebook page "Sherlock, the mess you've made!" for all their support and thanks to everyone who has read this previous chapters. I hope you really enjoy this one. Love,_

_**HaushinkaWasHere**_

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**Chapter 3: "Blogs, tea and heads in the fridge"**

"You have recovered perfectly already. Why keeping yourself closed in this hospital is the option you've chosen?"

"Are you seriously asking me that, Mycroft?"

The eldest of the two bothers chuckles, moving his umbrella playfully between his hands.

"I just wanted to know the exact words you were using for your excuse"

"I'm sorry to disappoint you but as the smarter one you can perfectly manage to figure out a possible answer for that."

For a moment the only sound to be heard is a deep sigh coming from Mycroft's mouth. _Rubs his temples because of a quite constant headache; his eyes are red because of the previous several blank nights. Obviously, he is worried. And knows exactly what happened yesterday in my daily visit to John's room without even asking, as usual. _Sherlock thinks, analysing.

"You know I've never been the kind of brother that-"

"Didn't I say that you had no obligation to come here and talk to me about useless rubbish?" cuts Sherlock as fast as he can. He doesn't want to talk about anything related to that. As if his little brother never interrupted, Mycroft's speech starts again.

"You know, Sherlock, that I've never been the kind of brother that sits down and gives advices based on any supposed experience with people, but I just wanted to let you know that, in case you need it, I can listen to whatever you want or need to say. The judgement can be chosen by you, I can just nod and remain silent or I can give an opinion."

"We have never had this kind of conversation. And you, as I do, don't think it is a good idea to have it."

"Better late than never. After all, Sherlock" he makes a brief pause "I worry about you".

For the first time, Sherlock doesn't seem annoyed. He is looking directly at his brother, his words being carefully analysed and unconsciously saved. It is then when he nods, just one short nod, his mouth being a thin line.

All of a sudden, as if a switch had been turned on in his older brother's mind, the ginger Holmes gets up and walks towards the door.

"Why the sudden exit?"

"You won't have to wait so much to understand. Goodbye, brother." With those words the man with the umbrella leaves the room and the detective alone.

**-oOoOo-**

Sherlock hates it when he has to admit that Mycroft can be right from time to time. Sitting on his hospital bed, legs crossed, about twenty minutes after his brother's exit, he hears a knock on his door. He could have recognised that sound and the man behind it even with his eyes closed. A sandy-grey hair followed by the blue eyes of the old doctor open the door shyly but firmly.

"May I?"

After blinking several times he nods and quickly says "Yes, yes, of course". He wasn't ready at all for such a visit. "I suppose they have told you to leave" says eyeing the other man's clothes, not being the hospital ones anymore.

"And I suppose you were the one that left these" says pointing at his clothes "before I even woke up" he completes the sentence with a little smile.

"Guilty" answers the detective with a soft chuckle. "I tried to pick up combinations that could be chosen by you before... Before everything happened." The shorter man looks down at his own body once more and says amused.

"So this is how I usually dress up?"

The detective nods. "More or less, yes. That is your most used jumper in fact."

_Hands twirling, not knowing where to remain or what to do. Several unconscious licks on his lips. Uncertainty, not knowing if he should sit or not... He is going to ask something. _"You can sit down."

"No, I'm fine." Says John, sighing to finally start his little speech. "Look, Sherlock... I don't know you. Well, apparently I do but..." he shakes his head "You know what I am referring to. I don't know you but it's like I do. I have the feeling that you are... Very important in my life. Really important. And-" he clears his throat "I do trust you". He takes a moment to breath, but before he can continue, the grey eyed man, who is staring directly at him, with a little smile on his lips cuts his talking.

"Yes, you can come back to our flat, John."

The older man laughs softly, hands inside his jean pockets, first looking down and then at Sherlock.

"You'll have to explain me some day how you do that."

"I wasn't deducing this time, John. " He says lifting his hands slightly in an innocent gesture. "It's just that I know you."

This is when John smiles. Not forcing it, no. The doctor addresses Sherlock one of **those** smiles that always make the detective smile back inevitably. He knew it. It wasn't worth giving up. Not with John Hamish Watson.

"So, shall we?"

The taller man puts his coat on immediately.

"Let's go."

**-oOoOo-**

The ride in the cab back home is silent but comfortable, having a curious John drinking from the sight of the streets the cab's window offers him.

"So, Baker Street then?"

"You already asked that four times."

"Because I still can't believe I could afford such a rent."

"Well, you should consider that we are very good friends of the landlady, so she decided to make us a little discount." Says absently the detective. He had already informed Mrs. Hudson of their return. He was sure the old woman would know how to behave in front of an amnesic John.

"The landlady..." the doctor frowns, looking at Sherlock to find an answer. "Was that sweet woman that brought cake to my hospital room?"

"Yes, she is." He nods and takes a moment before changing the subject. " John, I've been thinking of some methods that could hopefully work and make you, or at least help you, recovering your memory."

The smile on the doctor's lips makes his breath hitch for a second.

"Oh, tell me."

"Obviously talking and me telling you some of the things we have lived it's one. But there's another important thing you should definitely use: your blog."

"My blog?" he asks lifting an eyebrow.

"Since you met me and we started solving cases together, thing we can discuss later given your totally comprehensible face of surprise, you started writing a blog where you related all our... let's say adventures." _In a very romantic way. Shut up! _"So probably reading some of the entries could make you remember something."

The expression of the older man hasn't changed for a moment, still surprise fulfilling it. Shaking slightly his head he manages to mumble something. "F-Fine. Yes, sure. If you, erm... Tell me the link and everything. But Sherlock, d-?"

"Questions later, John. We are at h- I mean. We are already in the flat." Corrects himself rapidly. For John this wasn't their home. Not yet, at least.

"Finally, home." John has never been stupid. And still after such accident he is able to break the detective's deductions, leaving him with a squeeze on his knee and his eyes incredulous.

"Sir? Erm, do you mind...?" the cabbie cuts his thoughts .

"Y-Yes, money. Yes." He quickly pays him and steps out of the cab. "That door" points to guide the doctor. This last one is checking all the place, roaming his gaze around with a growing smile.

"This is very nice. I like it."

"We'll see if you say the same about the mess of a flat we own."

"I would never live in a messy flat. I've always liked my things tidy and clean." He says frowning.

"Not when you are sharing them with me, I'm afraid." Sherlock says as he opens the door. "You first, please."

After the doctor, he walks in, closing the door behind them and noticing Mrs. Hudson isn't still back from work. "Upstairs. Here." The detective throws the other man his keys. Automatically John goes to the next door, trying several keys until finding the correct one. He steps in and looks quietly around him. Suddenly he chuckles.

"What is it?" asks Sherlock confused and a bit amused at such reaction.

"That this flat is nice. Very nice indeed."

"But?" He crosses his arms in time as John faces him.

"But you are a bloody mess."

The detective can't avoid a laugh, shaking his head. "And you haven't seen the kitchen yet."

"What happens to the kitchen?" asks worriedly John.

"Nothing serious. Take a seat, please. It's your flat after all."

"**Our** flat" says as he sits in the **correct** chair. Yes. Yes! Sherlock fights the wide smile that wants to leave his mouth while he seats in front of the shorter man, noticing where the gaze of this one is fixed.

"Oh, that-"

"You did it."

Wait. Wait. He isn't asking. He is affirming it.

"You did it with my gun. But I can't remember why, when or how it happened. I just have the image of you shooting there." He says with a tiny voice still pointing at the yellow smiley face painted on the wall. Sherlock is completely paralysed, looking at John with wide eyes.

"What else can you remember?"

The doctor shakes his head.

"Nothing else. J-Just that, I'm afraid."

"John... That's a great improvement. That is..." he smiles widely at the man. "Amazing. GREAT. I told you this would make you remember but God-" he stands up quickly to take his laptop, opening it and typing rapidly. "I never expected such fast results. But well, you always surprise me after all." The detective isn't even aware of that last comment of his.

"Do I?" says John with a surprised but fond tone, a slight blush painting his cheeks.

Aware now of it, Sherlock looks up, flushing as well and mumbling nervously.

"Y-Yes- Anyways! Here" he handles the doctor his laptop. "This is your blog. You can check it now while I make tea. Still without sugar, isn't it?"

The doctor nods. "Yes, please. And, Sherlock?" says to the man in the kitchen. "Do you mind if I read it later? I don't feel like that right now. Too many things in such short time." He adds with a chuckle.

"Of course" he says from the kitchen, starting to boil water for the tea. "Bookmark it so you can check it any time. That laptop hasn't got password, you don't need to worry."

John has already walked into the kitchen, looking at the table full of laboratory tools.

"Oh God. Is that a microscope in our kitchen table?"

"I, erm... Tend to... To..." the detective scratches his head. "Make experiments."

"Are you a scientific?"

"No, I am a consulting detective, which means that when the police don't know how to solve a case they ask me. That's why I can easily deduce anything. You help me in those cases too. But I have to say that I have always had certain curiosity for science, so I decided t- No, John, don't open the fridge!" he nearly throws himself to John with a horrified expression. But it is too late...

"Is that a HUMAN HEAD?!" he says shakily and surprised. "In the fridge where we keep the **food** we **eat** afterwards?!"

"You were already used to it." Says the detective rubbing his temples.

Suddenly John stops himself, facing Sherlock.

"I don't know if I should be laughing or actually shouting at you."

"Maybe both at the same time could work."

Laughter fills the room as a minute of silence passes, first being one sided by the shorter man, the detective joining afterwards. Young laughs in not so young bodies. The flat feels complete now, alive even as both men close their eyes at the sound of their sudden happiness. For a few minutes there is no James Moriarty, there is no accident, there is no amnesia, there is nothing more than they both. _Just the two of us against the rest of the world. _Remembers the dark haired man between laughs.

"I could throw it away." Says still laughing the doctor.

"Don't you even dare!" shakes Sherlock his head, wiping some of the laughter tears.

"Try me." Says the blonde man, lifting an eyebrow with half smirk and opening the fridge's door. Sherlock, with a joking chuckle, gets closer to the doctor, positioning himself in front of the open fridge, arms crossed.

"Over my dead body."

John takes a step closer to the detective.

"Then I'll have to kill you."

"That's it."

"I have been in the army. I could actually kill you before you touched the floor."

"I'd love to see you try."

Their tones have been decreasing their intensity gradually as well as losing the mocking tone they previously had. The rate of their heartbeats starts increasing as they become aware of how close they actually are. Sherlock swallows thickly. John licks his lips unconsciously. The shorter man makes himself stand slightly on his tiptoes. The taller one leans down slightly. The shaking hand of the blonde one caress the detective's cheek, who closes his eyes, leaning into the touch.

"I like you" whispers John, his blue eyes fixed on the man in front of him.

Sherlock opens his eyes slowly, his voice low, nearly breathing the words he wanted to say long ago.

"I have always liked you, John."

"Why do I have the sensation that the feeling is mutual?" says softly the doctor.

"I hope you are right."

Their lips are almost there, the space between them being almost invisible, already brushing minimally...

"No." Sherlock says suddenly, stepping back and breaking any possible further contact. _No, no, no! I want this, but..._

"What? Did I-?"

"No, no, you did nothing wrong." He covers his eyes with one of his hands. "I-I'm sorry, John." He says before storming out of the kitchen, quickly closing himself inside his bedroom, falling down to the floor softly and sitting down, his head between his knees. Several knocks and the muttered voice of a worried John can be heard.

"Sherlock! Please, open the door. I-I... I don't understand. I am- God, I am so sorry."

_You don't have to be, you shouldn't be. It's my entire fault. That was the moment I had been waiting for since the first time I realized you were becoming my essential in life. But I can't risk it. What if you recover completely your memory, finding out what could have happened, and running away from me? I can't lose you for such a thing. I can't ever lose you. I'm sorry, John._

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_Only one more chapter left to finish this story! It will be uploaded soon, promised! Actually it is already written, so in a few days you will know the end of this story I hope you are enjoying. Any comments, reviews or whatever you want to point out will be more than welcome. Peace and love,_

_**HaushinkaWasHere**_


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